The Passion of Dido for Aeneas

Having at large declared Jove's embassy,Cyllenius from Aeneas straight doth fly;He, loth to disobey the god's command,Nor willing to forsake this pleasant land,Ashamed the kind Eliza to deceive,But more afraid to take a solemn leave,He many ways his lab'ring thoughts revolves;But fear o'ercoming shame, at last resolves(Instructed by the god of thieves) to stealHimself away, and his escape conceal.He calls his captains, bids them rig the fleet,That at the port they privately should meet;And some dissembled colour to project,That Dido should not their design suspect;But all in vain he did his plot disguise;No art a watchful lover can surprise.She the first motion finds; love though most sure,Yet always to itself seems unsecure.That wicked fame which their first love proclaim'd,Foretells the end: the queen with rage inflamed,Thus greets him: 'Thou dissembler! would'st thou flyOut of my arms by stealth perfidiously?Could not the hand I plighted, nor the love,Nor thee the fate of dying Dido move?And in the depth of winter, in the night,Dark as thy black designs to take thy flight,To plough the raging seas to coasts unknown,The kingdom thou pretend'st to not thine own!Were Troy restored, thou shouldst mistrust a windFalse as thy vows, and as thy heart unkind.Fly'st thou from me? By these dear drops of brineI thee adjure, by that right hand of thine,By our espousals, by our marriage-bed,If all my kindness ought have merited;If ever I stood fair in thy esteem,From ruin me and my lost house redeem.Cannot my prayers a free acceptance find?Nor my tears soften an obdurate mind?My fame of chastity, by which the skiesI reached before, by thee extinguish'd dies.Into my borders now Iarbas falls,And my revengeful brother scales my walls;The wild Numidians will advantage take;For thee both Tyre and Carthage me forsake.Hadst thou before thy flight but left with meA young Aeneas who, resembling thee,Might in my sight have sported, I had thenNot wholly lost, nor quite deserted been;By thee, no more my husband, but my guest,Betray'd to mischiefs, of which death's the least.'

With fixèd looks he stands, and in his breastBy Jove's command his struggling care suppress'd.'Great queen! your favours and deserts so great,Though numberless, I never shall forget;No time, until myself I have forgot,Out of my heart Eliza's name shall blot:But my unwilling flight the gods enforce,And that must justify our sad divorce.Since I must you forsake, would Fate permit,To my desires I might my fortune fit;Troy to her ancient splendour I would raise,And where I first began, would end my days.But since the Lycian lots, and Delphic godHave destined Italy for our abode;Since you proud Carthage (fled from Tyre) enjoy,Why should not Latium us receive from Troy?As for my son, my father's angry ghostTells me his hopes by my delays are cross'd,And mighty Jove's ambassador appear'dWith the same message, whom I saw and heard;We both are grieved when you or I complain,But much the more when all complaints are vain;I call to witness all the gods, and thyBeloved head, the coast of ItalyAgainst my will I seek.'

Whilst thus he speaks, she rolls her sparkling eyes,Surveys him round, and thus incensed replies;'Thy mother was no goddess, nor thy stockFrom Dardanus, but in some horrid rock,Perfidious wretch! rough Caucasus thee bred,And with their milk Hyrcanian tigers fed.Dissimulation I shall now forget,And my reserves of rage in order set,Could all my prayers and soft entreaties forceSighs from his breast, or from his look remorse.Where shall I first complain? can mighty JoveOr Juno such impieties approve?The just Astræa sure is fled to hell;Nor more in earth, nor heaven itself will dwell.Oh, Faith! him on my coasts by tempest cast,Receiving madly, on my throne I placed;His men from famine, and his fleet from fireI rescued: now the Lycian lots conspireWith Phoebus; now Jove's envoy through the airBrings dismal tidings; as if such low careCould reach their thoughts, or their repose disturb!Thou art a false impostor, and a fourbe;Go, go, pursue thy kingdom through the main;I hope, if Heaven her justice still retain,Thou shalt be wreck'd, or cast upon some rock,Where thou the name of Dido shalt invoke;I'll follow thee in fun'ral flames; when deadMy ghost shall thee attend at board and bed,And when the gods on thee their vengeance show,That welcome news shall comfort me below.'

This saying, from his hated sight she fled;Conducted by her damsels to her bed;Yet restless she arose, and looking out,Beholds the fleet, and hears the seamen shoutWhen great Aeneas pass'd before the guard,To make a view how all things were prepared.Ah, cruel Love! to what dost thou enforcePoor mortal breasts! Again she hath recourseTo tears and prayers, again she feels the smartOf a fresh wound from his tyrannic dart.That she no ways nor means may leave untried,Thus to her sister she herself applied:'Dear sister, my resentment had not beenSo moving, if this fate I had foreseen:Therefore to me this last kind office do,Thou hast some int'rest in our scornful foe;He trusts to thee the counsels of his mind,Thou his soft hours, and free access canst find;Tell him I sent not to the Ilian coastMy fleet to aid the Greeks; his father's ghostI never did disturb; ask him to lendTo this, the last request that I shall send,A gentle ear; I wish that he may findA happy passage, and a prosp'rous wind.The contract I don't plead, which he betray'd,Nor that his promised conquest be delay'd;All that I ask is but a short reprieve,Till I forget to love, and learn to grieve;Some pause and respite only I require,Till with my tears I shall have quench'd my fire.If thy address can but obtain one dayOr two, my death that service shall repay.'Thus she entreats; such messages with tearsCondoling Anne to him, and from him bears:But him no prayers, no arguments can move;The Fates resist, his ears are stopp'd by Jove.As when fierce northern blasts from th'Alps descend,From his firm roots with struggling gusts to rendAn aged sturdy oak, the rattling soundGrows loud, with leaves and scatter'd arms the groundIs overlaid; yet he stands fixed; as highAs his proud head is raised towards the sky,So low t'wards hell his roots descend. With prayersAnd tears the hero thus assail'd, great caresHe smothers in his breast, yet keeps his post,All their addresses and their labour lost.Then she deceives her sister with a smile:'Anne, in the inner court erect a pile;Thereon his arms and once-loved portrait lay,Thither our fatal marriage-bed convey;All cursèd monuments of him with fireWe must abolish (so the gods require).'She gives her credit for no worse effectThan from Sichæus' death she did suspect,And her commands obeys.Aurora now had left Tithonus' bed,And o'er the world her blushing rays did spread;The Queen beheld, as soon as day appear'd,The navy under sail, the haven clear'd;Thrice with her hand her naked breast she knocks,And from her forehead tears her golden locks;'O Jove!' she cried, 'and shall he thus deludeMe and my realm? why is he not pursued?Arm, arm,' she cried, 'and let our Tyrians boardWith ours his fleet, and carry fire and sword;Leave nothing unattempted to destroyThat perjured race, then let us die with joy.What if th'event of war uncertain were?Nor death, nor danger, can the desp'rate fear.But oh, too late! this thing I should have done,When first I placed the traitor on my throne.Behold the faith of him who saved from fireHis honour'd household gods, his aged sireHis pious shoulders from Troy's flames did bear;Why did I not his carcase piecemeal tear,And cast it in the sea? why not destroyAll his companions, and belovèd boyAscanius? and his tender limbs have dress'd,And made the father on the son to feast?Thou Sun! whose lustre all things here belowSurveys; and Juno! conscious of my woe;Revengeful Furies! and Queen Hecate!Receive and grant my prayer! If he the seaMust needs escape, and reach th'Ausonian land,If Jove decree it, Jove's decree must stand;When landed, may he be with arms oppress'dBy his rebelling people, be distress'dBy exile from his country, be divorcedFrom young Ascanius' sight, and be enforcedTo implore foreign aids, and lose his friendsBy violent and undeservèd ends!When to conditions of unequal peaceHe shall submit, then may he not possessKingdom nor life, and find his funeralI' th'sands, when he before his day shall fall!And ye, O Tyrians! with immortal hatePursue this race, this service dedicateTo my deplorèd ashes; let there be'Twixt us and them no league nor amity.May from my bones a new Achilles rise,That shall infest the Trojan coloniesWith fire, and sword, and famine, when at lengthTime to our great attempts contributes strength;Our seas, our shores, our armies theirs oppose,And may our children be for ever foes!'A ghastly paleness death's approach portends,Then trembling she the fatal pile ascends;Viewing the Trojan relics, she unsheath'dAeneas' sword, not for that use bequeath'd:Then on the guilty bed she gently laysHerself, and softly thus lamenting prays;'Dear relics! whilst that Gods and Fates give leave,Free me from cares and my glad soul receive.That date which Fortune gave, I now must end,And to the shades a noble ghost descend.Sichæus' blood, by his false brother spilt,I have revenged, and a proud city built;Happy, alas! too happy, I had lived,Had not the Trojan on my coast arrived.But shall I die without revenge? yet dieThus, thus with joy to thy Sichæus fly.My conscious foe my funeral fire shall viewFrom sea, and may that omen him pursue!'Her fainting hand let fall the sword besmear'dWith blood, and then the mortal wound appear'd;Through all the court the fright and clamours rise,Which the whole city fills with fears and cries,As loud as if her Carthage, or old TyreThe foe had enter'd, and had set on fire.Amazèd Anne with speed ascends the stairs,And in her arms her dying sister rears;'Did you for this yourself and me beguile?For such an end did I erect this pile?Did you so much despise me, in this fateMyself with you not to associate?Yourself and me, alas! this fatal wound,The senate, and the people, doth confound.I'll wash her wound with tears, and at her death,My lips from hers shall draw her parting breath.'Then with her vest the wound she wipes and dries;Thrice with her arm the Queen attempts to rise,But her strength failing, falls into a swound,Life's last efforts yet striving with her wound;Thrice on her bed she turns, with wand'ring sightSeeking, she groans when she beholds the light.Then Juno, pitying her disastrous fate,Sends Iris down, her pangs to mitigate.(Since if we fall before th'appointed day,Nature and death continue long their fray.)Iris descends; 'This fatal lock' (says she)'To Pluto I bequeath, and set thee free;'Then clips her hair: cold numbness strait bereavesHer corpse of sense, and th'air her soul receives.